A mother’s delight and child’s torment:
all those gifts beneath the glittering tree.
On Christmas Eve, a singular present,
always the smallest, she’d let us tear free
from its bright paper. The rest must remain
secrets for one more sleep: still a promise
that there is more to reveal, more to gain,
like the beckoning joy of Love’s first kiss
and the tiptoe hope that follows after it.
Not so the morning, when all is laid bare
and there are no more packages to claim.
Age makes us miss the wonder, so here I sit
waiting for that last and greater morning where
the gifts are still wrapped and bearing my name.
Tiptoe Hope
